


Sigyn

by StealthKaiju



Series: The Tales My Grandmother Told Me [1]
Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: F/M, Folklore, Grief/Mourning, Loki really shouldn't do that, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mythology References, Non-Graphic Violence, Odin really is a douchebag, POV Female Character, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 13:05:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19476520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealthKaiju/pseuds/StealthKaiju
Summary: Often overlooked, because everyone talks about Loki... but Sigyn is there.She waits by her husband, holding the bowl over his head, catching the poison.But why is she there?What does she want?





	Sigyn

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this some years ago, and I like to think I have improved since then. But I still like it. Any comments / feedback always appreciated.

It may or may not be raining. She does not know or care. She has not been outside in so long that the universe has shrunk to these few square feet. Her husband is there, screaming, gnashing his teeth, his eyes bulging like a rabid dog’s. She has not spoken to him in an age – she hasn’t spoken, touched him, or even looked at him.

She barely moves but she is far from idle. The grief and the fury burn within her, making her thoughts as toxic as the poison she holds in her hands. She considers pouring the poison down his throat, and holding his mouth closed to force him to swallow. It would be so easy to do.

While thinking this, she is unaware that her hand has rested on his chest. Memories seem to be held within her fingers, as they move over him. He is far thinner than he was, but his skin and the soft down of his body feel familiar and comforting. She is only aware she is doing it as she hears his breath catch in his throat. He has stopped his snarling, and instead seems to whimper.

She snatches her traitorous hand away, but the damage is done. She can’t ignore him any longer. She looks into his eyes, and it’s like looking into two clear pools: she sees her own rage and suffering reflected back at her. Yet, his desperation is greater.

‘Si-Sig…’ he tries to say, but it’s as if he’s talking through a mouthful of sand. She gently places a finger on his lips. He looks at her, pleading with her.

_End it… end it now._

*

When she first met him, she was far from impressed. It was hard to be awed by him: he was slight, pale, and compared to the others was a runt. He always looked several meals away from health. Yet the most disconcerting thing was his eyes – while the rest of him looked drained, they were full of colour, and always watched.

He was having an affair with her mistress. The master was away (maybe drinking, maybe fighting, maybe in another’s bed), and his wife was lonely. Lonely, bored, and angry. She invited him round, and the conversation, after false pleasantries, turned to her husband’s absence.

‘Do you know where he is?’ she asked, her voice trembling between nonchalance and self-pity.

‘Fighting, keeping back the hordes most likely,’ he replied, his voice like silk.

Her mistress sighed deeply. ‘I am not a fool. I know he…he is probably with someone else.’ Her voice cracked. ‘With…with another woman.’ A tear rolled down her cheek.

‘Listen, your husband is a good man. A great warrior. He looks after you.’ He moved closer to her, took her hands in his. ‘But he is not an intelligent man. I mean, I trust him completely. In a fight, I’d want him at my back…’

‘He’d never be at your back,’ she said. ‘You’d never be out in front.’

‘True.’ He laughed, taking a step so he was less than an inch away from her. ‘He is a good man, far better than me… but,’ his voice lowering, ‘he’s an idiot to leave you alone for anything.’

Sigyn couldn’t stomach anymore, so she walked out of the room. It was comical really. He probably thought he was in control over the situation, the great seducer. Men were idiots. Her mistress had obviously been planning this for a while. She had made Sigyn draw her a hot bath of sensuous oils, then dress her in her best clothes, and braid her long, golden hair and decorate it with flowers and pearls. A general going into battle could not have been as prepared.

She went to do her chores. Much later, when the dusk turned to night and her aching body could take no more, she fell into her small, uncomfortable bed. However it was hours before she slept. She remembered an age ago, before her lands had been invaded, how she was the one who had been courted. She had been given silks, furs, and jewels; men, young and old, had been desperate for her attention; she had been worshipped. Now her once soft hands were rough and calloused, her face lined with bad nights and bad dreams, and working all day had broken her body. Eventually, wearied by her hate, she slept.

*

Her mistress was sleeping late, as usual, so Sigyn went to feed the horses. The stable stank of manure and animal sweat, yet she enjoyed this task. She took her time, enjoying being out of calling distance from her mistress, and began to fill the troughs.

She had a habit of talking to them while she worked. While they gave no impression of understanding, they gave the impression of listening, which was good enough. ‘The mistress finally got her revenge last night,’ she began, dragging a heavy feed bag from the store. ‘Several times, if their grunting is anything to go by.’ She paused, hot by the exertion. ‘You know, they put on all these graces, like they really are superior…’ she whispered to the closest horse, ‘...but at the end of the day, they’re like dogs on heat. Only without the finesse.’ She laughed. She tipped the bag, and walked to get another.

As she crossed the floor, a thought began to gnaw at her. She looked around her, studied the master’s twelve horses in turn… and found that there were thirteen in the stable.

‘I’m surprised you’ve taken that form,’ she said to the one that didn’t belong. ‘After last time.’

The skin of the horse began to ripple, and the flesh began to move into itself. A few seconds later, the horse had turned into her mistress’s lover, and he stared at her intently. ‘It worked out fine for everyone else. Most of my schemes do.’ His smirk vanished. ‘Admittedly not so well for me…’

She shrugged. ‘I have things to do. I’m sure you know the way out.’ She turned to go.

‘Wait.’ He had moved incredibly fast, and was suddenly very close to her. She could see that he was attractive when he smiled. ‘Stay and talk. You must be lonely if you’re talking to livestock.’

She stepped back. ‘You must be lonely if you’re talking to me.’

His smile vanished, and his eyes flashed. He gave her a look that a fox might a chicken. For a minute she stood where she was, afraid of him, wanting to run but scared he may give chase. Eventually he turned his face away, and his body relaxed. ‘A fair assertion,’ he said softly. He bowed his head slightly to her, then walked past her without looking back.

*

He began to visit the house regularly, but always while the master and mistress were still out. At first he was only a few minutes early, waiting patiently while Sigyn stoked the fires ready for their return. He said nothing to her on these occasions, but just stared at his hands, drumming his fingers on his knees. She knew he watched her whenever her back was turned, but she never caught him in the act. One of these visits he spoke, and she almost dropped the firewood in shock.

‘You’re one of those from the other lands aren’t you?’ he said contemptuously. ‘I thought your kind was barely able to walk without their knuckles dragging on the ground, but you manage with incredible competence.’ Sigyn stood still, her body tensing. ‘I mean,’ he went on, seemingly oblivious to the sudden chill in the room, ‘you give the impression of being able to think and everything…’

She lobbed the firewood at his head, but with incredible speed he threw himself sideways. It clattered into the wall, knocking down a sword that had belonged to the master’s father. There was a clang and a thud, then the weapon lay still. Sigyn, her heart in her mouth, crossed her arms over herself to stop shaking. She dreaded to think what punishment might befall her; her master and his ilk were a violent race, and if they thought her guilty of a deliberate attack…

The man smiled at her, showing sharp white teeth, and began laughing. ‘My dear, I’m touched that you care what I think.’

A heartbeat later the master and mistress walked in the door. For a second a look of fear and guilt crossed the mistress’s features, but she composed herself magnificently.

‘Uncle!’ boomed the master, his voice like a thunderclap. ‘Lovely to see you, wonderful!’ He ran his fingers through his great, red beard. ‘You should have been there today uncle… glorious battle! They fell like saplings. Blood, battered brains and mangled flesh everywhere. Truly wonderful!’ The master saw the sword. ‘What’s father’s sword doing on the floor like that?’

Sigyn felt as if all the air had gone out of the room. Her heart hammered against her chest. If they found out…

‘Yes, sorry about that,’ her master’s uncle said. ‘I was bored waiting for you, thought I’d try it out. Just feel the weight of it.’ He flexed his hands, and rubbed his wrists. ‘It’s heavy. Dropped the stupid thing.’

The master laughed, throwing his head back and rolling it around his neck. ‘You are such a weakling uncle. Even my wife could have lifted that. Even… even,’ he gestured vaguely at Sigyn, ‘um… she over there…’

‘Sigyn’, he answered quietly, but his nephew didn’t hear him. His wife did though, and she looked at Sigyn with eyes full of hate.

‘Even she over there, Sigil, could lift that.’ He roared with laughter again. ‘No harm done. Anyway uncle, are you staying for supper?’

*

Her mistress had long since gone to bed, and the master’s head was on the table, his drunken snore reverberating through the wood. It was like being in a room with a swarm of insects. Sigyn yawned again, and her master’s uncle smiled at her. ‘You should go to bed. You’re the one who actually has to work for a living.’

She finished clearing the table of tankards, and plates, and was about to leave. Yet, she didn’t want to leave owing him anything. She held him in too great a contempt for that. ‘Thank you for not telling them about the firewood.’

‘You’re a very good shot. Just as well I’m faster than you.’ He stood up quickly, and she realised he had not drunk as much as she thought he had. Before she had time to back away, he had wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his lips over hers.

Sigyn pulled herself away and slapped him as hard as she could. He reeled from the blow, and she managed to extricate herself fully. ‘Damn you!’ she spat at him, safe in the knowledge that her master was far too gone to hear her. ‘I am grateful for you not telling them, but that gives you no right!’ She folded her arms. ‘You’re all the same, never think of anyone but yourself, just take what you want.’

He rubbed his cheek. She expected him to be angry, furious, but he was smiling at her. A wolf smile. ‘My dear, there’s no fun in taking what you want…’ He lowered his voice, each word a drop of oil in a clear pond. ‘The fun is in getting people to give it to you…’

*

Their courtship was an odd one. He would wait for her in the stables, and talk to her while she fed the horses and the goats. He had the reputation of being a lie-smith, so she could not believe anything of what he said, but she was impressed in his skill, using words as an artist may use paint or a blacksmith may use iron. At times it descended into loquacity, and he would ask her whether she understood what he meant. She always did. At first this annoyed him but soon he grew to like the fact that he did not have to limit himself to small words and small ideas.

He would still be a nuisance. He kissed her again, forcing his lips on hers, and she slapped him as before. The third, fourth, and fifth kisses he tried to steal from her also ended in her slapping him and storming off. The sixth kiss she yielded just a little: her lips parted, moving against his, and she was close to him long enough to breathe in the scent of him. It was a mix of honey and smoke. Eventually her brain managed to override her body, and she disentangled herself from him… then slapped him.

She did not see him for a while after that. Initially she was relieved, but then disappointed. She found that, although she had enjoyed the time to herself, she now missed having company. He was very entertaining, she had to admit that. Late at night, sleepless, she would think of him, but the physicality of him. The feel of his lips against hers, and the weight of his arms around her… It did not help her sleep.

A few weeks later he once again showed up at the stable, sitting on a bale of hay. She was nervous around him, and didn’t speak but bowed her head when she saw him.

‘Oh, don’t act coy with me!’ he snapped, but his eyes were smiling (a way that a cat might smile at a bird). ‘You can’t act shy, not when I know you’re more than capable of showing your true feelings.’ He rubbed his cheek. ‘Emphatically.’

‘I thought I’d annoyed you too much for you to come back’ Sigyn replied.

He spread his hands, like a lawyer addressing a court. ‘I was irritated. I did think about not coming back, finding something else to do with my very, very, valuable time. But,’ here he looked straight at her, dropping his voice to a stage whisper, ‘I couldn’t think of anyone else that would be able to converse on my level. Or even begin to comprehend me.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Your master, for example, is unbearably dense. I have had more intellectual discourse from his goats!’

They both laughed, and she went to sit beside him. ‘You don’t like them, do you?’

For a moment a shadow crossed over his face, a mix of resentment and regret. ‘Trust me, the feeling is more than mutual.’

Without a conscious thought she placed a hand over his, and gently pulled his face towards her with the other. He offered no resistance. She kissed him. It was a long, deep kiss, without his force but with no less passion. It was the type of kiss that blossomed into others: light, soft, quick kisses; kisses where tongues touched; kisses where teeth tugged on lips; kisses where her hands moved from his cheek to his hair, then down to his chest. With a brazen, wanton need, and more dexterity than if she had stopped to think about it, she entwined herself around him, on his lap and her legs bent either side of him. He lay down, allowing her to steady herself above him, and moved his hands under her skirts to the soft skin of her thighs. She kept kissing him, his face, his neck, his bare chest, all the while tugging at his clothes and exposing as much flesh as possible.

She lowered herself until he was inside her, and used him for her pleasure. And in that moment of mutual release – that moment that tells the act is mere base pleasure, yet can bring you a feeling of being higher than the stars, into the realm of gods - she breathed out, expelling all her anger, and her frustration of the unfulfilled longings that had plagued her nights.

And her lover? Well, as a master of words, a silvertongue, he was smart enough to know when to remain silent. He just lay next to her in the hay, wrapped around her.

*

‘You know, I could always visit you at night,’ he said to her, as he helped pick the hay out of her hair. ‘Might be a bit more comfortable.’

‘Not in the bed I have to sleep in, it wouldn’t. Besides, you can hear almost every sound in the house.’

‘Well, I’m quiet, you could be quiet…’

‘I have no intention of being quiet.’ She kissed him. ‘I enjoy what we do. I don’t want to start thinking during it.’ She adjusted her skirts. ‘Anyway, I have to go. The mistress will be up soon, and I have to get her bath ready.’

He tutted. ‘It would be much easier if you weren’t at the beck and call of someone else.’

She laughed, sharply and bitterly. ‘Yes, it would. Not my choice. I suppose it could be worse, I could have been slaughtered like the men.’

There was a minute of silence. Eventually he spoke. ‘You could live with me. That would be more to my convenience.’

‘As _your_ servant?’ She smiled. ‘That would be almost as bad.’

‘No…’ he sounded unsure. ‘As my wife.’

‘So I can be as unhappy as my mistress?’

His eyes flashed. ‘You assume you would?’

Sigyn sighed, the way a mother may sigh at a naughty child. ‘All the marriages I have seen have been unhappy. Husband and wife lie to each other, and use every opportunity to act as if they aren’t married.’

He took her hand to his lips, kissing the fingers gently. ‘I have never lied to _you_. And, whatever my past misdemeanours have been, I have not wanted anyone else since I met you.’

He moved to kneel, his hands on her lap and looking up imploring. ‘Sigyn, I am a liar, and a cheat, and there is so much vitriol in my being I am surprised that the earth beneath me does not corrode at my mere touch. However,’ he smiled, ‘I love you.’

He kissed her hands. ‘Please, marry me,’ he whispered.

Sigyn slid to his level, and answered with her body.

*

They were married soon after. It was easy to arrange – barring the difficulty her husband-to-be had in explaining to her master why she was leaving with him (‘You’re taking Sigyn? Do I know her?’). For the next months, for almost a year in fact, very little were seen of either of them. In truth they barely ventured out of their chamber, let alone the house.

In time she bore him a son, Vali, and later another, Narvi. And if we could leave the tale there, it would be a very happy one.

*

Sigyn came home to find her husband hiding under the table. She laughed, stooping down to see him. ‘My dear husband, you can’t tell me you’re afraid of thunder and lightning.’

His eyes were wide. ‘I’m not overly fond of what follows…’

The door crashed open, the wood splintering against the wall. His nephew stormed in, red-eyed and beard covered in spittle. ‘WHERE IS THAT SNAKE?’

Before Sigyn had time to say anything, her old master had lifted the table and thrown it, as an angry child may discard a toy. He grabbed his uncle by his ankles, and lifted him up easily. He swung him around into the wall, several times. ‘YOU SHAVED HER HEAD!’ He slammed his uncle’s face into stone. ‘MY WIFE IS BALD!’

Sigyn threw herself onto his back, trying to get him to stop. Her husband’s face was covered in blood, and she thought he might be killed. ‘Please, stop!’ she called, tugging at his neck and shoulders, her feet dangling off the ground. Her old master dropped him, and moved round to throw her off him. She fell into the wall, and there was a loud crack inside her head. She slithered to the floor.

The last thing she could see, her vision blurring, was her old master dragging her husband away, her husband’s fingers scrabbling at the floor. Then she lost consciousness.

*

She woke up, not sure how much time had passed, a ringing in her ears and the taste of blood in her mouth. It took a few minutes before she trusted herself to stand. Before she could move the door was pushed open again, and her old master and two of his kin came in, laughing and holding their sides.

‘Absolutely hilarious!’ said one, guffawing.

‘His own fault for making the wager. Trying to show off how clever he thinks he is’ replied the other.

‘You have to admit, he has style. _‘You can have my head, but you can’t have any of my neck!’_ That’s genius.’

The three men continued talking, and Sigyn felt her anger sharpening her senses. ‘Where is my husband?’ she asked.

The three men finally stopped laughing, wiping the tears of mirth from their eyes. ‘Oh, here. Worse for wear, but it’s his own fault.’

They dragged in her husband, who didn’t look up from the floor.

One of the men poked him in the ribs. ‘Go on, give your wife a smile.’

Her husband met her eyes, raising his head. She nearly fainted in shock and disgust. His lips had been sewn together with leather thread. In between the stitches were clumps of clotted blood.

The men started laughing again. She knew that the humiliation for her husband was worse than the pain, and for that she hated them.

‘Leave now.’ They did not hear her over their laughter. She drew herself up, trying to draw on strength she didn’t really have. ‘Leave. Now’ she demanded.

The men stopped, and looked sheepish. ‘We should probably… er... we’ll go.’

It took a long time for her to cut the stitches and pull out the thread. Her husband winced, occasionally gesturing her to stop so he could recover from the pain. She washed his lips carefully with water and healing herbs, then put a bit of snow on them to cool the swelling.

‘Was this your punishment?’ she asked.

‘No. That was easily sorted.’ He spat. ‘This was the work of Brokk, as I lost a bet to him.’

‘What on earth possessed you to shave her head in the first place?’

He did not reply for a minute, just looked down and fidgeted with his hands. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’

‘I asked, didn’t I?’

He sighed. ‘I… I’m not sure. I think I did it because I could.’

She waited, and he cracked under her interrogative silence.

‘They think me a runt. Something pitiful and weedy, lacking their strength. They look down on me.’ He frowned. ‘I can’t fight like they can, I can’t wield a blade well or an axe. But… I managed to sneak in a locked house, undetected. I managed to shave a woman’s hair, without waking her or the man sleeping beside her.’ He became excited, breathless. ‘Tell me that’s not the mark of a dangerous foe. Does that not prove that I am a threat, something to be feared and respected, not mocked or belittled? But do the cretins see it like that? Oh no. They think it a jape, a joke just like its perpetrator!’ He snarled. ‘Shave her hair? They’re lucky I didn’t strangle her with it!’

Sigyn tried to smile. ‘My love, for someone so intelligent, you really are an idiot sometimes.’

He rested his head on her lap. He said quietly, ‘I hate them. I hate them so much, it burns inside of me.’ He turned his head, his eyes meeting hers. ‘Have you seen a fire, a real one? Not some paltry hearth-light, but a proper blaze, with flames that leap and dance?’ He became almost breathless. ‘So powerful, so beautiful, so-‘ he sighed, his voice dropping to a whisper, ‘-all-consuming.’

Sigyn remained silent, as she had no words of comfort. She wasn’t a good liar, like him. She just ran her fingers through his hair, until he fell asleep.

*

Sigyn and her sons had been dragged out of the house. She had screamed, but one of them had put her arm across her mouth with a grip so hard she feared her head would crush open like an egg. She scratched at the assailant with her nails, clawing away at his skin in chunks, but he held on. They took them out of the village to a cave, where the rest of the clan were waiting.

Her husband was in the cave, kneeling, hands bound behind his back, covered in blood and bruises. He stared at the ground, silent as a dead man.

The chieftain addressed them all, yet his one eye fixed on Sigyn with the blaze of a comet. ‘This is the liar, the trickster, the snake who, through malice and spiteful forethought, has engineered the death of one we all loved and cherished. Too cowardly to do the deed himself, he tricked another into doing so.’ He turned his head to spit on the prisoner. ‘He insulted us, and blasphemed in our sacred halls. He tried to flee capture, like the gutless wretch he is. He must be punished.’

A roar of cheers came from the assembled, full of bloodlust.

The chieftain continued. ‘Bring forth Vali and Narvi’, and the two terrified boys were pushed forwards.

Sigyn struggled to get her mouth free from her captive. ‘No!’ she screamed, and the sound of it sliced through the air. ‘They are blameless!’

‘They are poisoned stock – the progeny of a runt of Jotunheim and a slave of inferior lands!’ the chieftain screeched. ‘They will not be tolerated!’

He placed a hand on Vali, and the young boy’s flesh rippled, squirmed and changed. His skin became dark grey fur, his body smaller and his face distorted. In his place stood a rabid wolf. It sprung at Narvi, its jaws clamping round the boy’s throat and ripping it out, pulling it away as easily as pulling weeds. The boy fell, and the wolf continued its feasting, tearing the flesh apart. It was soon shooed away by the others, and ran off howling.

Sigyn fell to the floor, sickened and heartbroken, wishing she could die.

Her husband was lifted and thrown on a slab of rock. Others wound Narvi’s entrails around him, and they set like iron chains. Still he did not speak. One of the women took a snake, wrapped it in place around a stalactite, so that its foul venom dripped onto his face, leaking liquid fire into his eyes.

In silence the company left Sigyn and her husband there, walking away without looking back.

*

Sigyn has not slept since, constantly holding a bowl over her husband’s face to catch the poison, to try and ease his suffering just a little. Yet, she still dreams.

She dreams of a sky without sun, or moon, or stars (their wrecked carcasses are strewn on the surface of the earth). The seas are writhing as the Serpent has risen, furious and spitting venom. The great wolf Fenrir spews fire and rips apart the world with his jaws. The giants of Jotunheim have swarmed on Asgard.

Her husband, meanwhile, is sailing on Naglfar, the ship made from dead men’s nails, captain to a crew of murderers and thieves.

The battle that follows is bloody. Everyone is killed – her husband by the watcher, but he kills him also. The serpent is killed by her old master, but he is overcome by its poison. And the chief… he is swallowed by Fenrir, pieces of his body falling on the ground.

Everything dies. The earth burns, and falls into the sea.

Sigyn thinks they are wonderful dreams.

Yet now she is tired of just dreaming.

*

Sigyn climbs up onto the stone slab, her feet placed precariously either side of her husband. She tries not to slip, trying not to wretch at the thought of what she is standing on. If she just reaches, stretches her hand out…

She catches the tail of the serpent above them, and jumps to the ground, pulling it with her. It tries to bite her, hissing and spitting, but she calmly whips it against the wall. When it is still, she takes the wooden bowl and bludgeons it. Her hands and face are soon covered with blood and brain smatterings, but she continues for a while afterwards.

Using her nails, long and dirty from neglect, she slices it apart, tearing and pulling. The blood she collects in the bowl, which she takes back to her husband.

He looks at her, confused and afraid.

She smears the blood on his hands and feet, making it possible to ease them out. Pulling him roughly, there is the sound of tearing leather as part of his skin is left behind in his fetters.

He does not stand before her, but falls to a crawl, weak and fearful. ‘Please, Sigyn,’ he pleads. ‘Kill me…’ She shakes her head, and pulls him to his feet. He stands awkwardly, and looks at her as if he no longer recognises her. She has changed – her rage is palpable, rolling from her like smoke from a fire. He gazes at her with reverence and fear. She is no longer his lover, nor his wife; she is a goddess of death.

‘Please…’ he prays. ‘I just want to die.’

She takes his hands and pulls him to her, taking his weight before he falls again. ‘And you will, Loki my love,’ she whispers. ‘But so must they all…’


End file.
